


Arrive

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 06:11:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10380213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Arwen pursues her wants.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aprilreign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilreign/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for aprilriegn’s “Dom Arwen/Sub Lindir. Young Arwen has a crush on sweet reluctant Lindir since he been taking care of Elrond's kids since birth. She hears his music late in the evening. Both innocent but curious. Teen or Mature (whichever works best)” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/158614764315/hi-yeaka-ive-always-mused-about-lindir-and).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

She left only for a glass of water from the kitchens, and now that her thirst is quenched, she drifts back amidst the halls, her silken night-robes fastened around her thin nightgown. She didn’t bother with any shoes, any jewelry, but walks almost as she slept, hair spilling freely down her shoulders. The air holds a slight chill to it, but it’s nothing a brisk walk can’t combat. The halls are eerily silent, empty, and she’s nearly to her quarters when she hears something new—the faint lilting of a harp.

Arwen pauses to listen. It only takes a few chords to know the player; she’s grown up with Lindir playing for her every whim. Half his songs have been composed by her request or in her honour. She follows it by ear, taking a turn down another corridor and up a flight of stairs. 

She finds him on a balcony. He sits by the rails, seated on a stone bench with a small harp in his hands, humming distantly and quietly, gaze lost amongst the stars. Still in the shadow of the hall, Arwen watches him, until her heart has convinced her mind that she must take her chance.

She sheds her robes as she goes, slipping loose the slash from her waist and letting the rest slither to the floor. In only her nightgown, only _just_ opaque and cut low across her breast, Arwen walks out onto the balcony. 

Lindir stops playing. He turns to look at her, though she thought her footsteps made no noise. She doesn’t falter. She comes to slide onto the bench beside him, close enough to feel his warmth, so wholly welcome. When she lifts one alabaster leg to cross over the other, Lindir’s eyes dart to the movement, and his cheeks stain a subtle pink in the moonlight. Arwen asks him, “Why did you stop playing?”

Lindir doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes follow the long line of her body, his hands and harp slumping, forgotten, in his lap. When he meets her gaze, he frowns and tells her, “You should not be out like this, my lady. You will catch a cold.”

She’s always loved the way he speaks titles, though she would like even more to hear him say her name. There’s a small string of concern in his voice—there usually is—but she’s already heated by her own interest and his closeness. Still, she wraps his slender arms around his nearest one as she purrs, “Is that the only reason?” 

Lindir hesitates, lips parting. She can see his reluctance as well as she can see his spark, but she’s never been one to give up easily. She leans in, almost close enough to kiss, and whispers along the corner of his mouth, “You need not take care of me any longer, Lindir. I am not a child.”

He murmurs, “I...” then falters, resuming: “I will always serve you... and your family...”

It’s a curious phrasing. He’s somehow both innocent and inviting, and it’s easy for her to shift one hand into his lap, her fingers tracing a delicate pattern along his inner thigh. She can feel _him_ through his too-thick robes and has the immense urge to tear them away. But that would frighten him off, and she restrains herself to idle stroking. His breath hitches, and he turns his head aside.

He mutters, voice now strained, “I cannot...”

“Cannot,” she persists, “or _will_ not?”

“You are my lord’s daughter...”

“Lindir.” She can nearly feel him tremble. She’s hardly doing anything. If she wished to truly _seduce_ him it would be over by now, but she still has to repeat his name to make him look at her again. She waits until she has his eye before promising, “If you wish me to leave, I will.”

Of course he doesn’t. She knows him well enough for that. His gaze softens in the interim of an answer, and she just enjoys his longing look: he eyes her like she holds all the beauty in the world. She’s heard similar compliments from many others—elves and Men and even dwarves, but none show it with such reverence as Lindir. She knows that when he eyes her body, her face, her lips, he sees _her_ beneath the outer shell. She leans forward, just a smidgen more, but enough to brush her lips over his.

Then she lifts her hand to curl beneath his chin and bring him to meet her. They share a lingering, chaste kiss. She can feel his _want_ beneath it. He tastes so sweet but kisses so purely and tentatively. She knows it would be all too easy to tug him to her bed.

Instead, she parts them, and she lets him shiver and settle, lets him soak in what they’ve done. As he battles his quickened breath, she sinks to rest her head on his shoulder. Cuddling tight to his heat and comfort, she sighs, “Play for me, Lindir.”

He murmurs, “Yes, my lady,” and obeys.


End file.
